The Adventure of the Broken iPhone
by JackMerridew25
Summary: Mycroft badgers Sherlock with a series of texts. Fluffy Johnlock. Friendship/homo-romantic Johnlock.


(Disclaimer: These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as well as Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and are imitated at my personal discretion. I do not own Sherlock, nor do I own Sherlock Holmes or the characters in either. This is a creative interpretation of what a normal day for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson - based on the extraordinary adaption of the old stories into a modern day Sherlock Holmes - would entail.)

Chapter One: The Adventure of the Broken iPhone

"Sherlock,"John calls out from the other room.

'No, I will not take the case. No, I do not possess the decency required to inform you that I believe your cases are a keg of spilled molasses, escaping pestilent ooze at a painful speed, unpalatable, boring, boring, boring...' Sherlock muses irritably. He almost tears the next page of his newspaper as he flips it, ignoring John completely.  
"Sherlock, at least tell him you're not interested," the doctor suggests with a sigh. Another buzz from the blond's pocket indicates the fifteenth in a sequence of texts from Mycroft. Sherlock grunts, which is more of a response than he had planned on giving. John shifts uncomfortably at another series of vibrations humming against his thigh. He puts down his laptop, glances in Sherlock's direction briefly, and then takes out his phone as coolly as he can manage. He gives his companion another questioning look, unrequited and played off as unnoticed, before typing up a response.  
"There,"John quips, tossing his phone to the other side of the couch, "I told him for you. Wasn't that difficult." Sherlock seems astoundingly unperturbed, but his jaw is tight and his eyes haven't moved past the first line of text on the page he recently flipped over. John gathers his computer into his arms, opening it up once more and checking his email. Silence iminates though 221 B, though is not either eerie or tranquil. Almost twenty minutes pass before Sherlock's phone, which is on the table in front of him, vibrates quietly. A pause, and then, without even checking whom the message is from, the device goes flying across the room and hits the nearest lamp. A crash, the breaking of two valuable objects, and then the footfall of a concerned landlady marching into the flat happens in a matter of seconds. Sherlock flips to the next page. John cannot say that he is surprised, but he is rather angry with his friend's way of handling something as simple as telling his brother off. He's staring at Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson stops in the middle of the floor. No more thumping of feet on the staircase. John can hear the words before she says them.  
"That...will most definitely be coming out of your rent! Couldn't even hit one of your own lamps? Had to go and hit my...oh, it's absolutely wrecked! Amazing how awfully you treat the furniture!" Mrs. Hudson yells, running over to the pieces of glass - once a hand-carved marble lamp stand in the shape in the shape of a dolphin - and shuffles hastily to the kitchen to fetch a broom and dustpan. John, not about to let Mrs. Hudson clean up Sherlock's mess, follows her and assures her that he will clean it up himself.  
"Oh, all right, dear,"she says, conceding the broom and pan. She wags a finger at Sherlock.  
"You know, your boyfriend really is a sweetheart, always cleaning up after you." When Sherlock doesn't respond, she clicks her tongue and starts to walk away.  
"We're not...I'm not his-" John starts.  
"It's all right, dear. No need to be ashamed. Goodbye, now," she interrupts smoothly. She turns on her heel and makes her way back to her room. John scowls, scooping up the last shards of glass and dumping them into the garbage can. He sits down at the kitchen table, across from Sherlock, and sips at a cup of coffee he made earlier.  
"Well, that was stupid," John inserts casually. He picks up a magazine and examines the front cover. Sherlock puts down his newspaper and clasps his hands together under his chin, leaning on the table with both elbows.  
"One's action, since an action is not an object or inanimate object, but rather an abstract idea, cannot be deemed as, 'stupid', John. That really should go without saying. So, the person who performed the action should be the one to blame. I'm not stupid. Therefore, there's nothing stupid about it," Sherlock explains quickly. The doctor shakes his head with a light-hearted chuckle.  
"No, Sherlock, you're not stupid. I just think it was a bit much. You need a phone for your work," John replies.  
"I know that."  
"So?"  
"Mm?"  
"So, how are you going to pay for a new phone? I'm sure as hell not buying one."  
"Lestrade."  
"Lestrade? You're going to ask him to buy you one?!"  
"Yes. Of course."  
"Well, good luck with that." After a few moments of silence, Sherlock takes a deep breath and holds out his hand.  
"What?" John asks, wondering why his friend is stretching his arm out toward him. obviously wanting something.  
"Phone, please," Sherlock demands, picking up the paper once more with his other hand.  
"Why can't you just use-" John trails off, remembering the melodramatic event that took place earlier. He exhales in annoyance and fishes his phone out for Sherlock. When the latter receives it, he begins typing.  
"If you throw my phone, I'll never forgive you," John warns, watching Sherlock carefully. The detective waves his warning away as he pushes send. He sets the phone down on the table and waits for Greg to respond. John takes another sip of his coffee. The phone buzzes. Sherlock rolls his eyes and types up another response.  
"He owes me," Sherlock comments, hitting send again.  
"Why do you say that?" John questions.  
"It's not as if I ask for money for the work that I do."  
"Doesn't mean he owes-"  
"-Yes, John, it does. If you were to consider the personal payments that I have turned down over the years, it would, quite certainly, add up to the cost of a fourth generation iPhone. He. Owes. Me."  
"All right, then. Hope he gives it to you."  
"He has to."  
"Right. You said that." The phone buzzes once more and Sherlock cracks a faint smile.  
"Well, I'll be..." John expresses, smiling as well. Sherlock gets up rather quickly and swaggers over to the coat rack.  
"Come on, then, John. You can help me decide on a colour."  
"Colour? Sherlock, there are only two colours..." The taller man ignores this statement and strides out the door anyway. John, of course, follows suit.  
The cab ride to the Apple store isn't too long. Before they know it, they're walking into a small building (John thought it would be larger) and Sherlock is looking through the phones on the wall. He chooses one before John can join him, and soon his companion has his new phone in a box in his hand - brand new sim card and charger and everything - and he's walking back out of the store. While Sherlock is flagging down another cab, John turns to confront him.  
"Why would you need me to come with you?" he inquires incredulously.  
"You have nothing better to do," Sherlock responds as a cab pulls up. John smirks.  
'Tos-pot,' he thinks to himself. Sitting in a cab for thirty minutes with his best friend is better than watching re-runs alone on the telly. Anything with Sherlock is more exciting than what he normally spend his time doing. He wishes that his flatmate wouldn't act so impulsively, but there's no doubt about it: Life without Sherlock is unimaginable.


End file.
